


Deserving

by jasminepeony14



Category: How to Get Away with Murder
Genre: Attempted Murder, Attempted Sexual Assault, Implied Sexual Content, Kidnapping, M/M, Past Rape/Non-con, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-17
Updated: 2020-05-17
Packaged: 2021-03-02 17:02:05
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,808
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24230266
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jasminepeony14/pseuds/jasminepeony14
Summary: In refraining from telling a particular lie, Connor unknowingly avoids a devastating spiral of murder and death.  But that does not mean he never encounters Annalise Keating and that there isn’t a dark secret lying in wait to upend everything he ever believed
Relationships: Oliver Hampton/Connor Walsh
Comments: 11
Kudos: 154





	Deserving

Connor Walsh nearly lies on his law school admission essay. He has does exceedingly well in undergraduate—valedictorian, Phi Beta Kappa, president of the pre-law club, active in the Gay-Straight Alliance—but Middleton is a first ranked law school and is flooded with applications from exceedingly successful undergraduates. He hungers to stand out. To be seen. He wants to be on the fast track for distinguishment, and the surefire way to get there is to be handpicked by Annalise Keating, Middleton professor and renowned criminal defense maven. To be intelligent and industrious is not enough to attract her discerning eye. You have to be exceptional, and damn it, Connor wants to be exceptional.

And part of him…a considerably persuasive part of him…is willing to lie to achieve that status. He has a lie teed up, a compelling story of shutting down a conversion camp, and the tale unfolds before him on his laptop screen, impassioned yet self-depreciating. It’s a stellar piece of fiction and certain to get Connor want he wants.

But, in the end, instead of “print,” he hits “deletes.” As much as he wants it, he doesn’t just want to get it. He wants to deserve it.

So he submits the truth.

He gets in, and his very first class is Professor Keating’s Criminal Law 100. He makes sure he is prepared, studying the case inside and out, and dresses like he is going to the job interview of his life. Professor Keating struts in, and she is everything that Connor thought she would be—razor sharp, brutally efficient, and arrogant with the brilliance to back it up. She asks her first question, and he hopes he doesn’t look like a toddler jumping up and down screaming “Gimme!” when his hand shoots up. She calls on him, and he is eloquent and confident enough that there is no way he isn’t on the professor’s radar by the class’s conclusion. All he has to do is prove his usefulness, and he meets his chance in a dimly lit dive bar.

Oliver Hampton is the nerdy kind of cute that most guys don’t appreciate. He is so obviously astonished when Connor smiles at him, and Connor knows instantly he will give anything to keep Connor’s eyes on him, including the salacious evidence Connor seeks. It would be so easy.

Then Oliver, smiling, peers earnestly through his lenses, and Connor can’t get make his mouth form the falsehoods he’s crafted just for this moment. Something whispers seduction is not how he wants to start this. So, in lieu of casting out a lure, he makes a comment on Oliver’s bright brown eyes, and when they have sex that night, it is for no other motive than mutual attraction.

Connor will never fully grasp the deadliness of the bullet he dodges. He will only know that he is not chosen for the elite Keating Five and that the spot that might have been his goes to the haughty and equally ambitious Simon Drake. He also knows that he has what might resemble a date with Oliver the coming weekend, and the anticipation that brings him overshadows any lingering disappointment.

It is not that Connor suddenly becomes a nicer person. But he might be becoming a better one. Oliver coaxes out of him an emotional maturation that he hadn’t known he needed, and he finds himself surprisingly sensitive, his reaction to a custody case study in Civ Pro so visceral his professor, Bethany Sung, perks up and takes notice.

“Mr. Walsh, a moment,” she drawls as the rest of class filters out of the lecture hall, and she waits until they are alone before she speaks again. “Your argument today was impressive, albeit a little rough around the edges. You clearly have an aptitude for this area of the law, and with the right polishing, you’d could do some very good work.”

In that moment, Connor realizes he is not at Middleton to appease his lawyer father and check off a box in a life plan drawn up before his birth. He actually wants to be here. He wants to learn how to do good work.

Professor Sung gives him the apprenticeship that Keating had withheld, a tutelage that is invaluable but not consuming. He strikes a tricky yet manageable balance between his classwork, Sung’s private practice, and Oliver. Somehow, he even manages time to crank out an article on Children Services disposition hearing procedures, which is accepted by the Middleton law review, a feat few first years accomplish according to Sung. Meanwhile, in Keating’s class, he achieves a comfortable place in the top third of his classmates but is never singled out, let alone permitted into her envied inner circle. He hears rumors of course—he doesn’t live under a rock, and it is impossible to go anywhere on campus without hearing about the dead cheerleader and the enlistment of Keating to defend the footballer accused of killing her.

But Connor never has firsthand knowledge of what unfolds within the walls of Keating’s home. When the dismembered body parts of Keating’s husband are found in the weeks after the campus bonfire, the discovery lands no harder or softer than any other grisly news clip. It’s a story he has no real part in.

Not yet.

The year passes—finals, Christmas break, spring semester—and Connor reaches milestones he hadn’t planned for but is delighted by. Under Sung’s guidance, he is increasingly showing a talent for legal writing and secures a staff position on Law Review for his impending second year. He also earns a summer internship for a respected family court judge, but the accomplishment he treasures most is the key that Oliver gives him and tells him to keep. If he could freeze life right here, right now, he would in a heartbeat.

But life is a river that can’t be damned, and five weeks into his second year, Michaela Pratt sits down at a library table directly across from him. Deep in his Contracts coursework, it takes a minute for him to feel her stare burrowing into his forehead.

“…Can I help you?” he, mid-page turn, asks lowly. Smiling pretentiously, Michaela laces her fingers and quirks an eyebrow.

“You,” she murmurs, “are one of the few people in our class I consider as good as me.” He snorts.

“Ok—”

“And they say,” she bulldozes on, “when it comes to custody case law, you’re the man to see.”

“Is there a point at the end of all this delicious flattery?” Clearing her throat, Michaela streamlines her approach.

“Professor Keating has us working on a case where custody is at issue, and I wouldn’t mind your expertise.”

“Wouldn’t mind my expertise?” Connor echoes, chuckling. “That’s an interesting way to ask for my help.”

“Oh no, I’m not asking for your help,” she denies. “Help implies that I can’t find relevant case law on my own. To be clear, I can. I just prefer to maximize my time.”

“Well, then, go maximize your time somewhere else. We are in a legal library, so instead of slapping me with backhanded compliments, you could be using the books to, oh I don’t know, do legal research.”

“Okay,” Michaela sighs as she flattens her palms against the table between them, “here’s the deal: there is a competition going on between me and the other four interns working for Keating. I need to win, and to do that, I need to bring Keating something that will clinch this case, and I need to do that before everyone else.”

“What about the kid?” She blinks.

“What?” Connor releases the page he has been holding, and it falls with a muted rustle.

“The kid,” he repeats. “The one being fought over in this all-important case. Is being in your client’s custody in _their_ best interest? That’s what this case—what all custody cases—should be about—what’s best for the kid.” 

Michaela shifts awkwardly in her seat, and Connor confirms his suspicion that she hasn’t given the child involved any real thought. He closes his book.

“I’m not going to arm you with case law just for the sake of winning,” he says, shoving his book into his crossbody bag. “A kid’s future is not some game.” He is nearly out of his seat when Michaela finds her voice again.

"It’s either our client or the system,” she replies. “And as someone who grew up in the system, I know our client is the better option for the kid. It is always better for a kid to be with someone who loves them and is willing to do whatever it takes to be with them.”

She could very well be lying. When asking around about him, she could’ve heard that, despite his too-cool-for-school bravado, he is in tuned with his heartstrings, and she could’ve decided to tug on them. 

Still, he sits down and gives her what she seeks.

Connor expects this encounter to be as close as he gets to Keating’s ironclad enclave, but then, a few days later, the woman herself graces the doorway of Professor Sung’s office.

“Annalise,” Sung murmurs, her eyes narrowing slightly. “What a surprise.” Assuming the impending conversation is not meant to include him, Connor begins to edge toward the door. He only stopped by to get Sung’s opinion on which agencies he should entertain at the internship fair, but he is pretty settled on the local CASA program, so the conversation is of no urgency.

But Keating slides into his path.

“I’m actually here to see you, Mr. Walsh,” she clarifies. Her voice is steady and assured, but there is something in the way she is looking at him, in the way her stare is trying to consume him, that has him keeping his distance. “I believe I have you to thank for an invaluable piece of case law.” 

Oh, so she had gotten wind of his assistance to Pratt. He relaxes a little and shrugs.

“It was nothing,” he dismisses. “I just pointed Michaela in the right direction.”

“Well, your directions were very precise. So much so that a couple of my other students consider asking you for help cheating.”

“Was it?” he inquires bemusedly. “Cheating?” Keating smirks.

“A mother gets to be with her son, so I don’t think it matters, but no. Professor Sung speaks very highly of your research skills, especially where family law is concerned. Ms. Pratt was resourceful enough to think of you, a fact I’m grateful for.”

“No problem,” he says, hoping he doesn’t sound as smug as he feels. “Glad I could help. Now, you’ll have to excuse me. I have class.”

He nods his goodbye to Sung and leaves chest puffed. He may have not made it into the K-Five, but he has gained Keating’s acknowledgment without stooping to lies and manipulation, and that he can be proud of without the shadow of guilt.

Leaving, Connor is not privy to the brief exchange of words that occurs in his wake. Her eyes a brooding storm, Sung crosses her arms.

“No.”

“Excuse me?” Keating sneers.

“No,” Sung says again. “Not him. You don’t get to have him for your army of acolytes.”

“I honestly don’t know what you’re talking about, Bethany.”

“Don’t you?” Sung counters dubiously. “Every year, you pick the cream de la crème to teach and mold personally, and then they go on to bright, influential careers that they owe to you. The rest of us professors, we accept it, because you’re you, _the_ Annalise Keating. You get the pick of the litter, and we make do with what’s left over. But that young man? Somehow, you missed him last year. I don’t know how or why, and I don’t care. You missed him, so you can’t have him now.”

“The boy is not a possession, Bethany.”

“No, he’s not. But he is an intelligent, driven gunner who is not just interested in foster care and custody and adoption—he’s passionate about it. Do you know how rare that kind of student is? To want to create real reform in the system and have the brain to make it happen? Most of the truly talented ones have their eye on the careers that will make them rich, famous, or powerful. Most of them end up working for you. But not him. You might have had a chance once to lure him to your special brand of legal practice, but you missed it. You missed it, Annalise, so you need to let him be.”

“You make it sound like I’d ruin him. Well, news flash, he’s a grown man who can make his own big boy choices.”

“The five you picked last year,” Bethany muses through a knife of a smile, “they went from the ones to beat to deadbeat in less than a year. I can’t say that you’re responsible for that, but working for you is the common denominator. I will be genuinely surprised if they last through the school year, and Connor’s future is too bright to be derailed by whatever is happening in that firm of yours. So, no. Him you leave alone.”

To her credit, Keating does try to leave him alone, though he is unaware of her efforts, and she is not to blame for their next entanglement. Having accepted an internship offer at CASA, Connor is shadowing his supervisor at court one Wednesday morning, and he dips into the bathroom to answer nature’s call before a disposition hearing. He is one of the two men using the facility, the other a tall, well-dressed silver fox who gives Connor an appraising onceover out of the corner of his light blue eyes. Connor is used to this kind of attention, and there was a time when Connor would’ve considered pulling the man into a stall. But he has Ollie now, and that version of himself is gone. Guys can look all they want—and who can blame them for looking—but only one is permitted to touch.

So, washing his hands, he isn’t expecting the hands that seize him from behind. One grabs him by the throat, keeping him in place with pressure to his windpipe, while other flies decidedly south and begins to unbuckle his belt. Connor immediately starts to struggle, his hands racing to pry loose the attacking fingers from his neck, but the man squeezes harder in warning

“You,” the stranger whispers roughly into his ear, “are just about as pretty as my wife.”

“D-doesn’t your wife have a problem with you molesting random guys?” Connor croaks, the hand on his throat tightening.

“Doubtful,” the man purrs. He takes a long, deliberate sniff of Connor's hair. “She’s dead.”

That’s when Connor starts to panic, his breath shortening with each successive inhale. Breeching his underwear, the man’s lower hand gropes his private place, and Connor sees his death flash before his eyes—his body slumped on the tile floor, discarded to be found with his pants down and his face blue.

 _Ollie… I’m sorry_ …

The world starts going white, his senses shutting down, so he doesn’t see a third man enter and snap to action, barreling between them. It is only when his savior is gently guiding him back to slower breathing does he register his assailant is gone…that he is still alive.

“You’re okay, kid,” his savior promises gruffly. “You’re okay.”

Immediately after, Connor is on pause, or the people around him are on fast-forward. It’s hard to tell which. Caricatures move in a flurry of blurs, their mouths opening and closing but issuing only white noise. His savior, a towering gray shadow, shepherds him to what he will later identify as one of the side rooms offered to attorneys and their clients, and a variety of dark colors swarm him—sheriffs, maybe. Keating and her posse definitely. His internship supervisor appears too, her face a redheaded blob, and she fawns and frets and maybe asks a spattering of questions. If she does, he can’t answer. He can’t speak. He can’t breathe. He can’t breathe. He can’t. He can’t-can’t-can’t

“Focus on me, Connor. Focus on me, and breathe. Breathe, Connor.” Managing to hear this, he mimics the slow, deliberate pattern of inhales and exhales until the world regains its lines and structure. The woman sitting before him is blonde and thin, her eyes a solemn doe brown, and her slender hands are gently cradling his.

“Good,” she says. “Good. Would you like some water?” 

“I…,” he rasps. “I—”

“Connor?” Oliver comes bursting through the door, and Connor’s body moves on its own accord like a magnet. One second he is sitting in one of the leather bound chairs commonplace in legal settings, the next he is in the safe warmth of Oliver’s arms. 

“Oh God, Connor!” Oliver sobs. “Are you okay? Stupid question, of course you’re not okay. Are you hurt? Did the bastard hurt you?” Oliver’s hands settle around Connor’s jaw, titling it up, and there is no hiding the bruising already staining Connor’s skin, the finger marks inked in plum purple like horrifying tattoos.

Exhaling shakily, Oliver thumbs at his Connor’s cheek tenderly.

“A paramedic looked him over,” the blonde supplies calmly as she stands. “It looks worse than it actually is. But he should probably go home and rest.”

“The hearing,” Connor remembers numbly. “There’s a hearing. I need to go to the hearing.”

“The hearing got pushed,” Oliver reports. “Your supervisor has given you the rest of the week off. I’m taking you home, okay?” He reluctantly lets go of Connor’s jaw to firmly grasp his hand, and wordlessly, Connor allows himself to be led toward the door. They are almost out of the room when he finds his voice again. 

“Thanks,” he mutters to the blonde woman over his shoulder. Her smile is small and tight.

“You’re welcome.”

It will be hours before he realizes that he and she have met before, a year ago at Keating’s office, though only in passing. He’ll try and fail to recall her name.

Meanwhile, as Oliver drives Connor home, Keating is gleefully recusing herself from a client’s case. 

“Excuse me?” Max St. Vincent balks from inside a courthouse cell, “what do you mean you’re withdrawing? You can’t—we’re in the middle of trial.”

“Yes, we are,” Keating concedes. “But before today, I had no direct knowledge of any crimes you committed—beyond murdering your first wife, of course. I could, with no qualms, turn this trial into a debate of he said she said. But then my associate walks in on you about to do unspeakable things to a young man—a student at the law school where I teach. So, not only do I now know with certainty you’ve committed a crime of the same nature of which you are accused, I also know your latest victim. I cannot ethically continue as your lawyer.”

Smirking, St. Vincent grasps the cold metal bars fencing him in.

“That’s hysterical,” he purrs. “Since when do you care about what’s ethical?” Taking a step forward, Keating closes in on him, only the bars separating her from him.

“Since you were stupid enough to try to rape someone in the courthouse where you are on trial for serial rape. What? Getting away with killing wife number one wasn’t a big enough thrill for you?” St. Vincent’s smile is a crocodile grin.

“I’ve just been so…lonely,” he sighs, “since the love of my life, my true wife, died, and I did my best to refrain until the trial was over, but then I saw him. So pretty, so confident. The kind of buck used to being in control. Those girls, they hadn’t really done much for me, so I thought, ‘Why not? Maybe it’s time to switch it up.’ I had him so briefly, but I could tell taking him would’ve been exquisite—if the Neanderthal hadn’t so rudely interrupted.” He tuts his tongue as he glances disapprovingly at Frank, whose upper lip curls.

“You don’t know how lucky you are,” Frank growls, “that you’re in there, and I’m out here.”

“Don’t bother, Frank. He’s not worth it,” Keating admonishes, her stare locked on the man in the cage. “One last piece of advice, Mr. St. Vincent—plead guilty now, and you might get out just in time to die an old, free man. But if you persist, if you make the prosecutor drag that boy to the witness stand and force him to re-live the moment you laid your filthy hands on him, you’ll rot in some hellhole until the devil calls you down. I’ll make sure of it.”

St. Vincent does plead guilty, not to spare Connor from re-traumatization, but he because does not care for exercises in futility. At sentencing, he is hammered with thirty years with no possibility of parole. A couple years in, his fellow intimates will learn why, and he will learn just how twisted Karma’s sense of humor is.

Connor just wants to forget. He doesn’t want to remember. He doesn’t want to wake up in the middle of the night, gasping for air, his mind swearing up and down the fingers had really been there. He doesn’t want to disturb Oliver, depriving him of sleep because he has to rock Connor back to composure. He doesn’t want to drive himself to near dehydration because the prospect of using a public restroom is too terrifying. He doesn’t want to feel so anxious just because Simon Drake corners him outside of his Juvenile Justice class and shows no respect for his personal space.

“Look man,” Simon begins tersely, “it’s messed up, what St. Vincent tried to do to you. But if you think I’m going to let you use that to weasel your way into Keating’s good graces, you better think again.”

“I don’t know what on earth your talking about,” Connor replies, gripping his bag with both hands and maneuvering it until it is between him and Drake.

“Oh, don’t play dumb, pretty boy,” Drake snaps. “I was onto you the minute you gave Pratt the Bratt that case law, and now your name is coming out of Annalise’s mouth an awful lot.”

 _You are just about as pretty as my wife_. 

St. Vincent’s drawl is a bludgeon to the head. Over and over. _Pretty. Pretty. I’ll get you, my pretty._

“—Hey! Don’t ignore me, asshole!” Simon raises his hands, reading to shove at him, but Connor can’t move. He’s frozen, rooted to the hallway tile. _Pretty. Pretty. Here pretty, pretty._

“Stop it, Simon!” Michaela grabs Simon by the scruff and yanks him out of Connor’s space.

“Seriously, what is wrong with you?” Laurel Castillo cries. 

“What’s wrong with me? What’s wrong with you?” Simon barks back. “Can’t you see what he’s up to?” Asher Millstone and Wes Gibbons simultaneously shake their heads.

“You’ll have to forgive my compatriot, dude,” Asher says to Connor. “Truth is he’s been sup jealous of you ever since he found out that your ranking could eat his ranking for breakfast.”

“You okay, man?” Wes asks.

“I…I’m fine,” Connor mumbles before walking away. “I’m fine.”

He wants to be fine. He’s going to be fine.

That night, across town from where Connor is falling apart in Oliver’s arms, a reckoning is wrecking the offices of Annalise Keating.

“What part of leave Connor Walsh alone is so difficult for you to understand?” Annalise rages like a dragon spewing fire. 

“Why are you so obsessed with him?” Simon roars. “And don’t say it’s because of St. Vincent! Your weird fascination with him has been going on since the Ward case! In case you hadn’t noticed, he’s Sung's pet project, not yours. _We_ —” He motions wildly at his fellow interns. “—are your students. You should be teaching us.”

“Well, it’s a little difficult to teach you when I’m busy cleaning up your messes and wiping your asses! In your haze of jealousy, have you forgotten all that I have done to cover for you?”

“Just be honest—you want to fire one of us so you can hire him! That’s why you and Frank keep having secret little talks about him!”

“As if I could bring him or any other decent person into this house!” Annalise screams. “You know why Sung took an interest in Mr. Walsh? It’s not that he’s smarter than any of you. It’s because he is passionate about a worthwhile cause and has applied himself accordingly. Would I’ve preferred a ‘pet project’ like him? Damn straight. Students like that teachers can point to and hang their hat on. They’re the kind of students teachers live for. Me? I got the students that might be the death of me instead. I could’ve hung you out to dry a long time ago, but I didn’t, did I? _Did I?_ ”

Heavy, suffocating silence is all that answers her. She lets her arms, spread wide, fall to her thighs.

“Leave Mr. Walsh alone,” Annalise repeats. “He’s no threat to you. In fact, if anything, it’s the other way around. So. Leave. Him. Alone.”

At Ollie and Sung’s gently urging, Connor starts seeing a counselor. Initially, he feels silly for going. It wasn’t like something had actually happened…that St. Vincent had actually…anyway, it had actually happened to other people, people who actually need the hour slot he’s taking. He tells the counselor as much at his third visit.

“Connor,” the counselor says in that gentle, patient tenor that all therapists acquire, “trauma is person specific. The fact that there are people who may have suffered more doesn’t invalidate your suffering. It’s not a contest, and there is no threshold of pain you have to endure to qualify. Trauma is trauma as we each define it. From what you’ve told me, your body and your subconscious define what happened in that bathroom as trauma, and it is okay and normal for you to feel that way.”

Tears, unwanted but needed, drip from Connor’s eyes, and the counselor lets him cry.

As Connor learns how to build himself back up, Annalise’s life is crumbing to ash. Wes, her favorite student, perishes, suffocated and then defaced by flames. In short order, her law license is suspended, her tenure at Middleton is revoked, and her freedom is stolen with her arrest for Wes’ murder. She must crawl her way back to square one, and to give herself and her now Keating Four a fighting chance at a fresh start, she is forced to decimate Wes’ legacy and cast him as the villain in a horror story.

Connor watches the twists and turns of her ordeal as they are portrayed in the media. He admires her phoenix resurrection—how she comes back swinging and vowing to transform the corrupted system that nearly destroyed her. Watching her makes him believe he can do this, that he can come back from that courthouse bathroom, changed, yes, but stronger. 

Despite everything that is to come, he’ll always be thankful to her for that.

Connor is showing off his engagement ring to Sung on the summer green of the quad when Laurel ambushes him, practically bowling him over.

“You have to help me,” she begs, tugging him away from Sung.

“I don’t have to do anything,” Connor rebuffs, retracting his hand. “I don’t even know you. We’ve had, like, one class together.”

“I’m going to lose my son,” she, panicky, pleads. “I’m going to lose my son to my father, and that can’t happen. It can’t. My father is a terrible person, and Christopher is my son. Mine and Wes’ son. Please, help me, like you helped Michaela with the Ward case.”

“I—I’m sorry,” he answers, his voice losing its edge, “but I don’t know how I could help. All I did for Michaela was offer some case law. If you need an attorney, I can ask Professor Sung for some referrals—”

“You know the judge,” Laurel interrupts. “You interned with her last year. You could talk to her.”

“Laurel, that’s not a good idea—”

“Or get me a meeting, or give me something I can use to persuade her—”

“Laurel!” he half-shouts, grasping her by the shoulders. “No. No, don’t do any of those things. It will make it worse. It will make things so much worse for you and your son. I will help you, okay? I will help you but only the right way.”

Sniffling, Laurel nods, and, like that, Connor becomes part of the story.

Laurel is awarded full custody of Christopher by the end of the summer. Connor doesn’t believe it is because of anything he did—he saw himself as little more than an assistant to Keating during the proceedings—but Laurel insists on taking him and Oliver out for drinks as a thank-you. Keating’s entire circle is there, including the blonde woman who had guided him out of a panic attack. Her name is Bonnie.

“I have to ask,” Bonnie queries amid the laughter and conversation, “why child welfare? No offense, but when I first met you, you struck me more as the corporate type.”

“No offense taken,” Connor assures, chuckling. “When I first started at Middleton, that’s where I thought I was headed too, but it turns out I was meant to do this work. I’m adopted, you see, and because of that, I had a pretty decent childhood. I mean, it wasn’t perfect. My parents got divorced, and I was shipped off to boarding school in the aftermath, because that was the only way my parents wouldn’t kill each other fighting over custody. But, all in all, I had it pretty good—I was loved, safe, and provided for. Not every kid is that lucky, and that’s not right. So, I’m going to do what I can to change that.”

“Your parents must be proud,” Bonnie murmurs, and Connor shrugs noncommittedly.

“Who knows? I think they originally adopted me to save their marriage, and I guess I did buy them twelve more years. Then, I came out, and a week later my dad came out, and my mom had a nervous breakdown. So, in a way, I ended what I was meant to save, and I am not sure either one of them got over that. But I am proud of me, and Ollie is proud of me, and those are the only opinions I really care about.”

“Well, if they’re not proud, they should be,” she says. “They should be very proud to have a son like you.”

Saying that Connor and Keating Four become friends might be an overstatement, but it is fair to say they become friendly, especially after Connor decides to apply for Keating’s special clinic. His motive is purely academic—if he is going to pursue major reform in the future, it would help to learn from the woman who has upended the state’s criminal justice system. Professor Sung does not approve, but she understands and gives her cautious blessing.

“Just be careful, Connor,” she warns. “Professor Keating is a force to be reckon with, true, but she didn’t get where she is without making a lot of enemies.”

Keeping this mind, Connor keeps his distance. As he watches Keating and her favorites, he can tell there is something binding them together. Something he increasingly suspects is dark and twisted. So when Oliver suggests they invite the lot to their wedding, Connor has his reservations.

“I don’t know, Ollie,” he mutters as they lie side by side in bed. “Simon doesn’t even like me.”

“Yeah, but he likes me,” Oliver argues teasingly.

“He more than likes you. Don’t think I haven’t noticed him giving you puppy dog eyes every time he thinks I’m not looking. It takes everything in me not to bend you over the nearest surface in front him and pound away until he gets a clue.”

“As hot as that would be,” Oliver snickers, “Simon so doesn’t like me like that.”

“You’re very cute when you don’t realize how amazing your ass is.” Oliver hits him playfully with one of their throw pillows.

“Come on, let them come. Asher keeps dropping not so subtle hints that they want to be there, and I am fairly certain that Michaela has made it her mission in life to become your bestie.” Rolling onto his side, Connor kisses Oliver’s collarbone.

“Well, too bad for her, that spot is already taken. By you.” A dopey smile adorning his face, Oliver swings his arm around Connor’s waist.

“As your bestie, then, I am asking you to let them come. Your dad’s paying for the wedding anyway, so might as well get our bang for his buck.”

Sighing dramatically, Connor relents, unwittingly setting the stage for tragedy.

Bonnie’s plus one is D.A. Ronald Miller. He shakes Connor’s hand with both of his, clasping it with more familiarity than a stranger ought to.

“It’s very nice to meet you,” he greets eagerly. “I’ve heard a lot of good things about you.” Awkwardly, Connor excuses himself to entertain other guests. Once he is out of earshot, Miller rubs Bonnie’s back.

“He’s a fine young man,” he tells her.

“Yes,” Bonnie agrees. “Yes, he is.”

A couple weeks later, Miller is found dead. The FBI come to question Oliver and Connor, since their wedding reception was the last place Miller had been seen, but they don’t stay long. They already know that the newlyweds had no real connection to the man, and the interview is routine and cursory. Sympathizing with Bonnie, they make her chicken soup and deliver it to her home.

“We’re sorry,” Connor says. “He seemed like a good guy.”

Bonnie accepts the soup with a teary thank-you.

“Yes,” she sniffles, “he did seem like a good guy, didn’t he?”

The New Year comes, and Laurel and her son disappear. Oliver relays the news to Connor over the phone as Connor leaves class and heads toward his car.

“What do you mean she’s gone?” asks Connor.

“She’s gone,” Oliver repeats. “Apparently, she vanished in a crowd, and Christopher vanished from his crib, with Michaela, Asher, and Simon right downstairs.”

“Shit.”

“I know. It sounds like they are taking it pretty hard. We should make them cookies.”

“ ‘Cause nothing makes people feel better than ‘Sorry-your-friend-went-missing-chip’ cookies.”

“ _Connor._ ”

“Okay, okay. I’ll pick up some eggs on the way ho—”

Hands grab him, slapping a cloth over his mouth. Dropping his phone, he yelps and tries to elbow and kick himself free, but his energy is rapidly lost to heavy fog and encroaching darkness.

The last thing he hear is Oliver screaming his name, his voice distant and fading.

The abduction is public on purpose. The kidnappers want there to be several witnesses to attest how they, in black, jumped out of unmarked van parked next to Connor’s hatchback and snatched the law student in broad daylight. A little dazed, the witnesses will each recount how the young man had sagged suddenly, obviously knocked out and helpless.

The story will be on all the news channels within the hour, a clip of a distraught Oliver conversing with police on repeat.

Still, the kidnappers will wait until late that evening to call Annalise. They do not give her breath or room to negotiate.

“Laurel Castillo for Walsh. Bring her and the kid to 207 Lexton within the next twenty-four hours, or we’ll send him back to his husband piece by piece.”

Though they hang the threat of maiming over his head, the kidnappers are disturbingly polite to Connor. They keep him blinded, gagged, and bound, but they do not harm him beyond this. One of them calls him a slur and is promptly corrected with a punch to the gut. Apparently, even cartel have a code of professionalism.

That doesn’t mean Connor isn’t terrified out of his mind. He can scarcely breathe, waiting for the blow or bullet that will snuff him out. Because how else can this end?

How can he possibly make it out of this alive?

“The kid doesn’t know, does he?” Jorge Castillo inquires nonchalantly. “He’s got no idea.”

“And it’s going to stay that way,” Frank snarls. “Now that it’s been established we know as much about Laurel’s whereabouts as you do, let him go.”

“Just let him go?” Jorge laughs. “With nothing to show for my trouble? I’m afraid I can’t do that. Besides, the FBI will be on him like flies on shit, poking around for why someone would take him, only to mysteriously release him later.”

“Demand ransom from his father,” Frank suggests easily. “The family is wealthy enough to make a ransom grab plausible. Once you get paid, then set up some lackey to take the fall. You’re creative enough to make that happen.”

“Which father?” Jorge asks, grinning devilishly. “Both are wealthy enough. One more so than the other.” Frank does not humor him.

“Just do it, and let the kid go.”

The next day, Connor’s father, Jefferson Walsh, receives a demand for a half million dollars to ensure the safe return of his son. He arrives at the drop off site at the appointed time with five hundred thousand dollars in cash loaded into a duffle bag. A van is waiting for him, and once Jeff places the bag at the van’s back side door, the door slides partially open, just enough for someone to push Connor out and pull the bag in. As the van speeds off, Jeff rushes to release Connor from his bindings.

“I got you, son,” he exhales raggedly. “I got you. I got you.”

The van makes it a mile before the FBI run it down. A tracker in the duffel bag had led the authorities right to it, and its occupants are arrested without fuss.

It could be said that it all proves a little anticlimactic. 

Except this isn’t the climax.

Oliver hardly lets Connor out of bed for days. Conor doesn’t blame him and lets him hover, because as much as Oliver needs to hover, Connor needs to be hovered over. But once he leaves their apartment, Connor refuses to look over his shoulder. He won’t go back to that cold metal chair, his hands zip tied behind his back. He won’t.

So, he throws himself into his last semester like a starving man gobbling down a piece of bread. In Keating’s clinic, he defends an undocumented child and wins him asylum. He weighs his career options and loads his free time with interviews and bar prep. Once he gets out of Middleton, he is convinced, everything will be better. He can move on to the next chapter of his life. Maybe that’s why he doesn’t see the last sucker punch coming. His gaze is fixated on the future.

“You have your mother’s eyes.” Initially, Connor doesn’t find this statement odd at all. It is quite feasible for Lawrence Goodwin to know his parents. The legal world is incestuous at times, everyone knowing everyone else, and Lawrence Goodwin is a lawyer by education, even if he now runs a well-known lobbying firm. His father might even be the reason Goodwin’s office had pestered Connor until he agreed to an interview. His father has never been a fan of Connor’s intent to venture into the non-profit realm. Plus, it wouldn’t be the first time that someone had mistaken Connor for his parents’ biological progeny.

“Ah, thank you,” he replies, “but I’m actually adopted.”

“I don’t mean the pretender who raised you,” Goodwin corrects, his grey-blue eyes glinting. “I mean your mother—the woman who birthed you.”

Clearing his throat, Connor downs a gulp of the water Goodwin had provided him at the start of the interview.

“You…you knew my birthmother?” he asks, coming up for air.

“For a night, yes,” Goodwin confirms. “I got to know her in a very…intimate way. But that was over twenty years ago. I imagine she has changed since then.”

Goodwin stares at him, and Connor sees the exact moment he realizes that Connor has grasped the implication.

“That’s right,” he murmurs. “I am your father. I wanted to meet you. I was hoping I wouldn’t like you, you see. I was hoping that I would at least be doing the world some good by doing something necessary. But, alas, I’m depriving the world of someone who would have made an excellent advocate.”

“Wh-what?” Connor chokes. He claws at his chest, his lungs refusing to recruit much needed oxygen. In any other setting, Connor would’ve chalked the inability to breathe up to a panic attack, but Goodwin’s cool gaze touches Connor’s half-empty glass before looking back up at Connor regretfully. 

“I always wanted children,” Goodwin explains. “I always wanted to be a father. I married three times, but the children never came. So, I was happy to learn about you, despite the revelation coming from a blackmailer. I was happy. Until I learned that I wasn’t being blackmailed for having an illegitimate child but who I had an illegitimate child with. For the crime that child was irrefutable proof of.”

Pushing weakly against the table, Connor tries to stand but fails, collapsing back into his seat. Black pokes holes into his wavering vision.

“It will be quick, my boy,” Goodwin promises. “A little painful, but quick. They’ll rule it a heart attack. Tragic in someone so young, but believable. It will give your family closure. And don’t worry about your husband. I’ll make sure he’s taken care of. So, don’t fight it, Connor. Just let go. Let go, son.”

And as hard as Connor does fight, he can’t stop his heart from stopping. He can’t keep the darkness from seeping in.

Connor is nearly gone when Frank kicks the door down. He keeps a gun trained on Goodwin as Bonnie flies in, diving straight for Connor’s limp body.

Resignedly, Goodwin smirks.

“Hello Bonnie.”

“Shut up,” Franks orders, cocking the gun. “You don’t talk to her.” Bonnie isn’t listening anyway. She has her cell pressed to her ear.

“Please hurry,” she cries into the receiver. “His pulse is weak and fading fast.”

“I wish I had known,” Goodwin muses. “I would’ve raised him. I would’ve made sure that he had every advantage.”

“I said shut up,” Franks commands again, but Goodwin continues unperturbed.

“I’m surprise your father didn’t offer him to me. I would’ve paid anything. Anything.” Her slim face stone, Bonnie hangs up. She strokes Connor’s hair.

“The best thing that ever happened to him,” she says, “is my sister selling him to a human trafficking ring, as fucked up as that sounds. He ended up with decent parents. Decent, loving, safe parents. He’s going to be the best thing I ever did. You don’t get to take him away. You’ve stolen too much from me already.”

Nodding, Goodwin reaches for Connor’s glass and raises it high.

“To our son,” he toasts. “To our beautiful boy, the best thing we both will ever do.”

Then, he downs the drink.

Four days later, Connor comes to in a hospital bed. Bonnie is at his bedside.

“Oliver went to the cafeteria,” she says softly. “He’ll be back soon.” Connor blinks hazily.

“How…long?” he asks, his mouth dry. “How long did you know?”

“…Since the Ward case. The adoption agency—it was a front for the same trafficking ring that took you.”

“My parents…bought me?” Shaking her head, Bonnie tentatively grazes his temple with her fingertips and combs a few loose strands of hair away from his face.

“I’m sure they didn’t know. The way the operation worked is that the agency had adoptive families pay for medical bills and living expenses for birthmothers. All the adoptions were closed, so the families never knew the birthmothers didn’t exist and that the agency was just pocketing the money.”

Quietly, Connor gives Bonnie a good, long look.

“You must have been so young,” he whispers, eyes watering. “I’m sorry that happened to you. …I’m sorry I happened to you.”

“No, Connor, no,” Bonnie insists, grasping his hand. “Don’t do that. Don’t blame yourself. You are the best thing that ever happened to me, and I am so glad I got to see the man you grew up to be. I didn’t deserve to, but I’m so, so thankfully that I did. Please know that. Please know how proud I am of you.”

“If that’s true,” he says, tears burning his throat, “why didn’t you tell me?” Bonnie’s smile is small and weak.

“Because I knew I would be the worst thing that ever happened to you. And I was. The kidnapping. Goodwin nearly… That’s all my fault.”

“You didn’t do those things to me,” he points out.

“No, but I am why they happened. You don’t deserve that. You don’t deserve the curse of being my child.”

“It’s…it’s not a curse.” Connor doesn’t know why he says it, but when he does, he knows it’s true. Squeezing his hand, Bonnie opens her mouth but closes it abruptly as the door squeaks open.

“Connor?” Oliver gasps. Bonnie steps to the side so Oliver can gather his husband up in his arms.

“Ollie,” Connor mewls. “Oh, Ollie.”

As they hold each other, Bonnie slips out.

It will prove to be the last time Connor ever sees her. Three weeks later, she dies on the courthouse steps, collateral damage in a shootout between Frank and the police. By the time of her funeral, he has learned more about the cycle of murder, death, and trauma Bonnie had strove to safeguard him from, and though he will never know the full picture, he knows enough to know he was loved.

“Simon was right, you know,” Annalise tells him as they walk away from Bonnie’s grave. “After the Ward case, after we found out the truth, I did want to fire him so I could hire you. So Bonnie could have an excuse to be close to you. She wouldn’t let me. She said that you didn’t deserve to be roped into the mess that was our lives. She was right, of course. She was always right when it came to protecting you.”

He will run into Annalise again over the years that follow, almost always before Bonnie’s gravestone on the anniversary of her death. She doesn’t seek him out beyond this context or try to find in him the son she lost twice over—that she discovers in Wes’ son. Connor understands and appreciates her reasoning. His very eyes are a reminder of the love and life she could never have back. The family that had been taken so cruelly from her. 

So, they go on with their respective lives and do their best to be people deserving of the time they are given.

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote this in honor of the show's series finale. While I loved how the show wrapped up, I was always a little disappointed there wasn't a big secret lurking in Connor's past like the rest of the Keating Five and had always hoped he would turn out to be someone's secret son. Thanks for reading, and I hoped you enjoyed it!


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